Friday, 17 June 2011

We’d run by the burn when the burndidn’t run at all. Stopped in summers youth,low and still in the no flow time zonewhen we had it all – warm summer light,nights far off as the sea mouth gulpinggreedy as a beer monster, our burn.

We didn’t know it crashing through bushes,on the run across imaginary enemy-lines,ducking behind NO DUMPING signspeople ignored to jettison their crap –magpie-bairns salvaging scrap:old washing machines concealed in leaves,

wheel-barrows, car seats, cupboards in trees . . .One day we discovered old cassettesfrom the fifties in bags beached by the burn –compilations of voices recorded long beforewe were born: discarded, flowing onin the winter-gush fast-forwarding the burn –

archaic pop guddled by a new generation.We ran against the current to an old soundtrack.

Friday, 10 June 2011

Almost summer, they say; and outsideall the evidence is in placeto confirm the diagnosis. A stale water sky,yard dressed in confetti; and that sweet aching smellthat’ll wake me up sneezingevery day in June, driving me indoorsuntil the weather cools

and I can look outon a dream so beautifulthat everyone dreams itat exactly the same time.Remember crossing the bridgefrom school, tearing off your shirtbombing down through the waves:finding a hollow in the dunesthat feels more like homethan the room barricadedwith the winter things you lovewhen frost smokes leavesdry as new sweaters,and the snow posts cardsthrough your door.

But here you must be nakedand afraid, shot out of a dreamyou only belong towhen you turn out of the office to runsomeone else’s errandand all the skies of summer are out there,like a postcard from a landyou’ll never visit again;

and you’ll never know whyyou need winterto feel such a summer in your bones.

Thursday, 2 June 2011

On our pond at Golden PinesWe check each day the shaded groveWhere the swans are nesting.Shouldn’t be long, we say.The male shares the duty,Giving them a leg upOn other species we could name;But then he wanders off.Any day now, we remark.But at the water’s edge:Some eggs are smashed,New ones in their place.Still the mother patiently sits,Reminding us of thingsWe wish we did not know.

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